


Tsukishima & the other

by SmallPinkSquid



Category: Bleach
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Random - Freeform, Short, inside the mind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 07:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19459027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallPinkSquid/pseuds/SmallPinkSquid
Summary: Just a little small & random 'snapshot' kind of drabble about my favorite psychopath & a glimpse into his mind, I guess





	Tsukishima & the other

It starts at the tips of his fingers, like the soft, distant buzzing of bees’ wings, a muffled thrumming, a vibration just beyond the range of human hearing; its the slightest of tingles that lets him know, after only a moment, that _its_ returned.   
Well, no… not ‘ _returned’_ , as such, exactly, since it never truly leaves him, it only lays dormant for a while and then, always once more, emerges from its hiding place within him, demanding indulgence, **_needing satisfaction_**.  
He doesn’t really have a name for _it_ , this thing that lives inside of him, he’s not even sure a name for it exists, but even if it does, he wouldn’t dare utter it, not aloud at least; _to think it, is to summon it_ , and Shūkurō _does_ so try to keep it suppressed, to his credit, to the best of his abilities. Admittedly now, he’s selfish and holds little remorse or concerns for those around him, he’s learned to live and function with the kind of consideration and softness that the world has paid him with, from an early age, and so if he falters in his pursuits to quell the voracious thing inhabiting his body, it is only for his own sake; because, each time, it wants more than it did the last time… each time, it becomes harder and harder to push down and soothe.  
A part of him wonders if he isn’t being slowly consumed; what will happen the day _it_ refuses to sink back down into the shadows that fill him? Its not that Tsukishima is afraid, not really… _he’s troubled by it_ , certainly, he’d be a fool not to be; however, another part of him is morbidly curious to see what would happen if he were to let _it_ run rampant, brimming with a kind of twisted amusement at the mental image of those around him, horrified by _its_ lust for carnage & human suffering.  
The world around him is so blissfully unaware, its like his own private joke on them— he’s holding the Gates of Hell closed with no more than his index finger; Death in waiting, held at bay for the time being, but for how long, even he can’t say.   
_If that isn’t the definition of **Comedy** , then what is?_   
But for now, _its_ seemingly contented enough with simply being let out to play, every so often; the rest of the time it lurks in a nest made of the most poisonous parts of him, the messy, broken pieces he hides from the forefront of his consciousness, the blood-stained fragments he can’t rid himself of. Pull the right threads and it’ll all unravel; and the ‘cloth’ in question is delicate, years of wear have turned it fragile, fraying at the edges when it isn’t handled _just so_.

Another **_amusing_ **thought, then. It feels relevant, just now.  
_…How the tearing of fabric can sound so similar to that of his sword slicing through flesh.  
_ Or maybe that’s just what _its_ making him think; sometimes its hard to tell, his thoughts become clouded and muddled when _it_ gets restless, impatient for the cage door to open, anxious to carry out its ballet of blood and death.

_Ahh… its no use delaying the inevitable_ , he thinks, withdrawing the tasseled marker from between the smooth pages of his book; its such a familiar feeling, so practiced and honed, its like running his hand through a trickle of cool water, as if the air itself is flowing around his fingers, feather-light, asking to be wielded and given form.   
Yes. _This is Fullbring._  
The hum that started in his fingertips has since spread, like the gently crackling, snowy static of a faulty television, all throughout his body, and his lips quirk with the smallest of smiles at the sensation; there is comfort in that usualness, like the well-known & reassuring weight of an old friend’s hand upon your shoulder. Except that, rather than a ‘friend’, its a devil.   
_The devil you know_ , and he knows you too; knows you **_so well_** ...better than you know yourself, perhaps.  
The night air is cold - crisp, clean; it burns his lungs to breathe it in so sharply, but at the moment, the sting is welcomed, even revitalizing. Its dark, a starless night— the sky turned obsidian as the ink used for calligraphy; sunrise is still a long ways off.  
Book of the **E N D** , indeed… for some unlucky soul, tonight, it surely will be precisely that.


End file.
